The assembled admirals, generals, civilians, and lesser-ranking officials were gathering up briefcases and calling it a night, so there might yet be time.
"There will be a postmission analysis," Myers told them all. "Concord Briefing Room, 0900 hours." He cocked an eye at Garrett. "I'd like you to be there as well, Captain Garrett. Captain Berkowitz? See that he has the necessary clearances."
"Aye aye, sir."
Garrett was pulling out of the Pentagon complex onto the 395 entrance ramp when the incongruity of the evening hit him. Minutes ago, satellite communications networks and high-speed computers had let him literally look over the shoulders of SEAL operators in coastal Iran. He'd watched an Exocet hit the Sirocco, watched the subsequent fight for survival in the warm waters of the Arabian Gulf.
And now he was worried about what he would tell his girlfriend when he met her for dinner.
It was, he thought, a hell of a way to fight a war.
And war it was. America's fight against terrorism had begun long before al-Qaeda's attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon on September 11, 2001. So far as the public at large was concerned, however, that date was to the War on Terror the same as December 7, 1941, was to America's entry into World War II.
Whatever the starting date, however, it remained a war with few front lines against an enemy as insubstantially ghostlike as he was determined. Over the years, the United States had taken on a number of countries known to support the terrorists and their goals — Libya, Afghanistan, Iraq — but the terrorists themselves remained devilishly elusive.
For some time now Iran had been the nation most visibly in America's sights. Not that an invasion was being planned, necessarily, though there was considerable scuttlebutt to that effect. But reports coming out of Central Intelligence continued to stress possible Iranian support of terror groups like al-Qaeda, the virtual certainty that they were working on nuclear and biological weapons, and their destabilizing actions in an already notoriously unstable part of the world. With the governments of the nations to either side of her— Iraq and Afghanistan — taken down by U.S. invasions and replaced by fledgling democracies, the mullahs of Tehran were beginning to feel isolated… and threatened.
And they were reacting in a predictable way, with bluster and bombast and threats against their neighbors. That mysterious facility near Bandar-e Charak might well hold the key to Tehran's intentions. Operation Black Stallion had been intended to reveal that key.
Unfortunately, the attempt had almost certainly made things worse.
Much worse.
He thought about the terrorists.
America's single advantage over such an enemy remained her technology, from UAVs to satcom links that let senior leaders in Washington look in on what passed for the front lines in real-time.
Of course, Garrett reflected as he merged with the Beltway traffic heading north, that could also be America's single greatest disadvantage in this war. The bane of every commander in the field was micromanagement by the rear-echelon brass. It was said that on the night of the debacle at Desert One, Colonel Beckwith, the Delta Force commander, had suddenly developed "communications difficulties" so that he could conveniently ignore orders coming from the basement of the White House to press on with a mission already obviously doomed.
Orders from then-President Carter himself.
It felt strange being part of the rear-echelon command now instead of where he felt he really belonged— on the sharp point of the spear. He was a sub driver, damn it. He belonged out there: the eyes, ears, and — at times — the fist of American military policy.
Not here, as part of the American military policy's fat ass.
Come to think of it, Jimmy Carter had been a sub driver before he'd become President. Garrett wondered if Carter had had similar thoughts… especially during that night of flame and death in a remote desert refueling site deep inside of Iran.
Flame and death.
He thought about Kazuko.
Damn it. He'd not thought of her for some time, now, but the realities of the terror war always brought her memory back. She'd been his lover, his fiancee… and a flight attendant on board a passenger plane shot down by terrorists over the South China Sea.
Again he wished he were still a sub skipper. He felt so… helpless.
And useless.
But Garrett knew his sub-driving days were over. His experience in the boats had brought him here, to a job conning a damned desk, writing reports suggesting novel uses of submarines in the fast-paced and deadly war America was now fighting.
He hoped Brenda would understand when he showed up late.
He pulled his cell phone out of his uniform's jacket pocket to give her a call.
3
"Our target remains the same," the briefing officer said. He clicked the remote control in his hand, and a satellite photo came up on the screen behind him. "Objective White Scimitar, ten kilometers north of the port of Bandar-e Charak. Satellite reconnaissance over the past three months has indicated heavy ongoing construction in this area. In addition, the port facilities themselves are being expanded, and a new road is being cut down out of the mountains, from White Scimitar to Bandar-e Charak.
"And we don't know what the hell they're building over there."
The briefing officer was Gerald Markham, a civilian on the staff of the DNI. The Director of National Intelligence was the relatively new cabinet-level position created by President Bush in the wake of 9/11, a post that had superceded the Director of Central Intelligence in many of his critical functions, including that of giving the President his daily briefing on intelligence matters. The DNI ostensibly ran and coordinated all fifteen of America's spook agencies, a task formerly assigned to the Director of Central Intelligence.
Garrett wondered if the high-echelon shake-up within the intelligence community had made a difference in the efficiency and timeliness of America's spy efforts… or if the change was cosmetic only. So far it didn't look like the office of the DNI knew any more about what was going on in the world than the DCI had.
Markham paused and looked around the room. About twenty people were gathered around the long, hardwood conference table — most in uniform, but a few suits in evidence as well. Garrett recognized the men who'd been in the Pentagon basement room last night — in particular Paul Myers, who'd taken his seat at the head of the table. Most, though, were unknown to him.
"A number of you are new to this working group," Markham continued. "So before looking at White Scimitar in detail, a brief overview of Iran's recent history is in order. You all know the basic outlines, at least. Called Persia until 1935, Iran became an Islamic republic in 1979 with the overthrow of the Shah. Highly conservative clerical forces created a theocracy with the ultimate political authority residing in a religious scholar — the Ayatollah — and a Guardian Council of twelve clerics."
Markham had a slow and measured way of speaking that bordered on the pedantic, even the tedious. Garrett wished he would get on with it.
"Of course," Markham said, "U.S. relations with
Tehran have been strained since Iranian students under the guidance of the Ayatollah Khomeini seized the U.S. Embassy in Tehran on 4 November 1979, and took the American citizens working there hostage. They held over fifty hostages for 444 days, until 20 January 1981.